


When The Halletts Came To Stay

by poisonbutterfly



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, OT3, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Polyamory, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-27 16:09:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19016284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonbutterfly/pseuds/poisonbutterfly
Summary: The situation is less than ideal. Having her parents staying in the house puts several closely guarded secrets at risk. Most days, her father can barely stand the fact that she married Phineas. Charity can only imagine what he's going to think if, or when, he finds out about Phillip's true place in the Barnum home.





	When The Halletts Came To Stay

Caroline and Helen are going to be late for school.

Charity points this out to her husband, a man who has never once been on time for anything in his life. His reply is garbled around the slice of toast he shoves into his mouth. Phineas pushes the wrong arm into the right sleeve of his jacket, his too small shirt riding up around his belly as he flaps around the kitchen like an oversized blue bird.

She gives him an appraising once over and sets her cup down in its saucer.

"That's Phillip's shirt you're wearing, dear."

Phineas looks at her and then down at himself, expression darkening as he finally notices the inch gap between the hem of the shirt and the waistband of his trousers. There’s little to be done about it now, save buttoning up his waistcoat and jacket to hide it.

"When I get home tonight tonight, I'm sewing name tags into all our shirts.”

Charity laughs. She’ll believe that when she sees it. If Phineas won't spend an extra few seconds confirming he is indeed wearing his own shirt, he's not likely to set aside the hours it would take to individually name each item of clothing. But then, Phineas does love his initials printed over anything and everything.

"You know it wouldn't be a issue if you actually used your side of the wardrobe for your clothes, instead of stuffing them in wherever there's room."

"My wife, so wise."

Phineas pecks her cheek, his lips crumbly with toast.

She sighs, long suffering. "And yet I can already tell my wisdom is going to be ignored."

The corners of Phineas’ mouth twitch with a half smothered grin. In the hallway, the clock starts to chime. The kitchen becomes a flurry of movement as Phineas rounds up his children and gulps down cold coffee.

Charity hurries on ahead, plucking the girls coats and school bags off the rack. Voices grow louder to make themselves heard in the rush, Charity listing the things she needs Phineas to pick up at the market, Caroline reminding them of her ballet rehearsal that afternoon. It's chaos every morning but Charity wouldn't change it for the world.

Shoes and coats on, Charity throws open the front door and finds her father on the top stair, his fist raised ready to knock, her mother waiting two steps down from him.

"Oh!" She is stunned by their presence for a moment longer than is considered polite. "Mother, father, what are you doing here?"

His answer is lost beneath Caroline and Helen's cheers upon finding their grandparents on the doorstep. The girls push passed Charity to embrace them, peppering them with questions, talking over one another.

Phineas appears at Charity's side, his expression carefully neutral, but he fiddles with the buttons on his coat like he needs to be doing something with his hands. What she wouldn't give for a simple, pleasant _good morning_ to pass between Phineas and her father instead of these hostile stares. At least, she supposes, it's not snide remarks and seething anger.

Charity's gaze flickers to the footman unloading the luggage from the back of the carriage. Her stomach drops. She hopes that she is wrong about what's coming but has an awful feeling she's right.

The silence between Phineas and her parents stretches until even the girls can pick up on it, the smiles slipping from their little faces.

"Phin?" She prompts softly, touching his elbow.

He shakes himself out of a daze, the animation returning to his face as he realises the time.

"Girls, come on, we're going to be late! Leave your grandparents be."

Helen stomps her foot. "Oh, but-"

"Can't _they_ take us to school?"

Hurt flashes behind Phineas' eyes. So brief you wouldn't notice it unless, like Charity, you'd learned to look for it, privy to his greatest fear of not being good enough. It’s absurd that Phineas believes anyone could possibly ever replace him in his daughter’s affections and yet Charity knows it is a very real fear that lives in the darkest corners of his heart.

"Maybe some other time, sweetie," Charity suggests.

Phineas kisses the corner of her mouth and Charity wishes today they could linger over their goodbyes. "I love you," he murmurs and she says it in return. "Send Phillip along when he wakes."

 _This_ comment raises her father's eyebrows. Surely it's not news that Phillip moved into the house, and, as far as the world is concerned, into one of the many spare rooms.

Her husband and children hurry off hand in hand down the driveway, yelling their goodbyes over their shoulder.

A pile of luggage sits at the bottom of the steps. Dread lines her stomach with ice. The question has been answered before it's even been asked.

She barely even hears her father explain; "the house has been flooded," and "mind if we stay a few days?"

Her relationship with her parents has never been great. Finishing school was a punishment for her friendship with Phineas. Their only virtue was that they eventually agreed Charity could marry him, after seeing that she would not be bullied into a loveless marriage with anyone else, on the condition she'd have to give up everything she knew. They only speak now because of Caroline and Helen, two girls they weren't even aware of until a few years back.

She'd like to make amends, if not for her children, then for her own peace of mind. Phillip's relationship with his parents is completely irredeemable. Phineas never knew his mother, hardly had a decade with his father. They won't ever have the opportunity she does.

Yet having her parents to stay puts several closely guarded secrets at risk. Her father can barely stand the fact that she married Phineas. Charity can only imagine what he's going to think if, or when, he finds out about Phillip's true place in the house.

In the end, she says yes, like she was always going to. Because it had already been decided for her. Because they're her parents and it's only a few days. Because they welcomed her and the girls into their home when there was nowhere else to go and it's time to return the favour.

As Charity graciously accepts them, luggage and all, her thoughts are of her husband. Phineas won't like it. He'll understand but he won't like it. Caroline and Helen will be thrilled to have their grandparents around, the girls inexplicably attached to their grandpa for reasons neither party can explain.

Phillip sleeps on blissfully unaware upstairs and Charity wishes that too was her.

 

~

 

"I’ll eat elsewhere tonight, then, Charity." Barnum makes no attempt to lower the volume of his voice despite being perfectly aware of the company waiting on the other side of the door.

It seems news of their stay has not gone down well.

"If he has to stay in the house, then so be it. But I will not sit down and make small talk with him over dinner."

"Phin, please-"

"Would you demand Phillip dine with his parents?"

Phillip tenses and though he must be aware that all eyes are now fixed upon him, he continues chatting away to Helen without missing a beat.

Caroline, sat between her grandparents, stares down at her hands clasped in her lap.

Benjamin doesn't know what the correlation is between Phillip's parents and Charity's, other than Barnum failing to make a good impression on either. He is rather enjoying this and hides his grin behind a wine glass.

If Barnum doesn't want to eat with him, that suits Benjamin just fine. He’ll starve because of his own pride.

"No, of course not, but-"

"Then, sweetheart.” The fight has vanished from Barnum’s voice, replaced by a haunted sadness uncharacteristic of the man who always has a smile for everyone. Benjamin has to strain to hear what he says next. “Please don't ask this of me."

Benjamin's face twists with confusion; what on earth could be so bad? He and Barnum have never seen eye to eye and aren’t likely to in the future. Benjamin finds it hard to believe Barnum is so resentful of the past that he won’t even be civil for a few hours for the sake of his wife.

The front door slams shut and echoes through the house like a death knell.

Resignation sits on Charity’s shoulders like a physical weight as she enters the dining room. All the colour has drained from her face, the corners of her mouth turned down. Carlyle is the only one who rises to his feet, observing those social niceties instilled within him since birth. She impatiently waves him back down, refusing to catch his eye and ignores the concerned glances he sends her way.

"Phineas won't be joining us for dinner this evening.”

The announcement is unnecessary and the flatness of her voice only further sours the mood.

She does not sit at the head of the table in her husband’s absence, choosing instead to take her place beside Helen.

Benjamin opens his mouth to pass comment but Charity's glare freezes the words on his tongue. "I don’t want to hear it, father."

Her hands tremble as she rings the bell for food to be brought in.

 

Hannah returns from her mid morning stroll around the gardens with her soul light as the air she breathes. Being at one with nature always puts her to rights, just what she needed after yesterday's terrible ordeal. The rose bushes Charity has carefully cultivated rival her own prize winners. Hannah spots their clippings, petals of white and red, in vases proudly dotted around the house. Benjamin never allowed flowers indoors. Allergies, he claimed.

Just down the hallway, Hannah catches snippets of Phillip's gentle, melodious voice. Something about the rhythm of the words is familiar, a half forgotten poem she can't quite place. Bewitched by a siren call, Hannah is powerless to deny the currents drawing her closer.

The library is the most beautiful room in the house, crafted by someone with a deep, enduring love of literature. Where the rest of the house is polished and fashionable, this room is not. But that's part of its charm. The shelves, an eclectic mix of materials and heights, are overflowing with every book imaginable, their spines cracked and the pages well thumbed. The order of the titles seems to be that there is no order. Picture books about dinosaurs stand cover to cover with thick Dickens volumes. Wonderful chaos to an outsider, yet its inhabitants can probably lay a hand on any requested title in a flash.

Knowing what little she does of Phillip, his love of neatness and books, Hannah marvels how the place doesn't drive him away in fits of despair.

Phillip and Charity are sprawled out on the bay window seat. Charity's head rests on his shoulder, her eyes closed and face slack with sleep, their hands loosely entwined in his lap. He fills the room with lilting, measured words, unfazed by his audience lost to her dreams. Hannah feels like she's just imposed upon their own intimate world of two, a world she was never supposed to witness and she's struck by the urge to cover her eyes and flee.

Her abortive attempt to move catches Phillip's attention, his startled gaze lifting to hers. His eyes widen just fractionally, his words trailing off. In that moment, it feels like no one in the room is breathing except Charity. She watches Phillip's cheeks colour yet he makes no attempt to extract himself from Charity's embrace, offers no excuse or reason. There are many things Hannah wishes to say but the shock has made her tongue too heavy for speech.

Charity makes a soft protesting noise in her throat at the sudden silence, nuzzling against Phillip’s neck, blissfully unaware of the scene unfolding around her. The tension in the room snaps. Phillip shifts his gaze to Charity with a fond little smile and- _oh_.

Hannah's heart contracts painfully inside her chest.

Not once in all their long, long years of marriage has Benjamin _ever_ looked at _her_ the way Phillip looks at Charity in that moment.

All the pieces fall into place. Questions she's had since her arrival in the house are answered.

Hannah catches Phillip's eye, his expression vulnerable and wary. A fierceness to the set of his mouth that wasn't there a second ago, almost like he's preparing his words for a battle.

Well, he won't find one here, Hannah decides, squaring her shoulders.

Instead she offers what she hopes is an understanding smile and a nod of her head that could perhaps be approval. The furrow between Phillip's brows deepens.

Hannah knows the Carlyles, they run in the same circles, she might even call them friends. Over the last few years, though they've never spoken about in exact terms, the Halletts and the Carlyles have banded together over the scandal of losing their only children to the same unsavoury man. Now here they sit, Phillip and Charity, the _runaways_ , unashamedly entwined, sharing far more than their respective parents would've ever guessed.

It's not her place to judge where or with whom her daughter finds her happiness. It hasn't been for a long time, not since Phineas returned a fully grown man and took Charity away from her life without her last name or a penny to it.

As Hannah turns on her heel, Charity murmurs an achingly soft, sleepy, "Phillip?"

Hearing his name spoken on the cusp of unconsciousness with such trust and familiarity tells Hannah everything she needs to know about Phillip's place in Charity's heart.

He shushes and soothes her with words Hannah doesn't catch. Resuming his place in the book, Phillip's voice and Charity's contented sigh follows Hannah down the hallway.

 

A few days becomes a few weeks.

The damage is taking far longer to repair than originally thought and though they try to hide it beneath polite smiles, none of the adults in the Barnum house are happy about this turn of events.

Barnum is away more than he's home. He must be sleeping at the circus some nights, Benjamin reckons, or returns exceptionally late and leaves again before the house stirs at dawn.

At first, the idea that he had driven the man from his own home had pleased Benjamin. He had crowed over how weak Barnum is, to flee at the mere memory of a slap delivered by his very palms decades ago.

Slowly, surely, a cloud of misery settles over the house with each second Barnum is absent from it. The circles under Charity's eyes darken like purple bruises. A perpetual furrow threatens to make a home between Carlyle's brows. Worst of all, Caroline and Helen's tears at bedtime, inconsolable, wanting nothing else but their father to read to them.

"We can't stay here much longer," Hannah whispers to him one night and Benjamin knows the truth in it.

The walls are thinner than anyone in the master bedroom seems to realise. Benjamin falls asleep to Charity's mournful voice, Barnum's harsh words trailing off into hushed apologies.

 

Benjamin doesn't realise how late the hour has become until he's drawn from his papers by the turn of a key in the lock.

The errant leaders of the menagerie of freaks and spooks returned from their nightly conning the public.

He pays them little attention.

The candles are burnt down to slivers, straining his eyes against the impending dim, his spectacles digging into the bridge of his nose. Hannah retired to bed just after sundown, claiming a headache, but Benjamin had wanted to go over every detail of the surveyor's report. If there's any sign of structural damage then they could be homeless for the foreseeable future.

Barnum's voice echoes off the walls, still full of its showman projection. “Join me for a nightcap before bed, Phil?"

Carlyle readily agrees. Their footsteps disappear into the study next door, their voices muffled through the wall.

"I thought you were saving this bottle for special occasions?"

A decanter is unstopped, liquid poured. Benjamin considers joining them, his throat parched.

"Then we're celebrating yet another spectacular show, another full house. A toast to you, my Phillip. There's no one else I'd rather have beside me in the ring, in business and in life."

Benjamin rolls his eyes at the attempt at flowery sentimentalism coming from a con man.

The glasses clink.

"Thank you." Carlyle sounds oddly choked for a moment, a quality that disappears once he clears his throat. "But we all know the audience prefer you."

Barnum makes a disapproving sound between his teeth. “Darling, I thought we agreed to work on your self deprecation?”

 _Darling_? Benjamin's insides crawl. Deciding he’s heard enough, he marks his place in the book and rises to his feet.

" _You_ agreed. I nodded along and waited for you to stop talking.”

Barnum gives a long suffering sigh. "Don’t you ever listen to me? What is the point of keeping my over compensated apprentice around if you don’t listen to my bright ideas?"

“Your _partner_ ,” Carlyle corrects mildly. "And I already know you don't listen to me. Case in point, the zebra fiasco this morning…"

From the doorway, Benjamin stares in horror. Bile hits the back of his throat. Never mind the circus, here a freak show takes place right in front of his very eyes.

Barnum's hands cup Carlyle's cheeks with tender reverence. The rest of the world ceases to exist for Barnum. There is only Carlyle. It is a look Benjamin has seen on Barnum’s face every time he looks at Charity.

 _Charity_.

Good lord, does she know what her husband is tangled up in?

In answer, his mind provides a snippet of a long ago conversation he thought lost to the depths. Time and memory has not lessened the fierce defiance of his daughter’s voice.

_Phineas doesn’t keep secrets from me. Not anymore._

Benjamin's presence continues to go unnoticed.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Barnum asks, sounding anything but. He traces the curve of Carlyle's smile with the pad of his thumb. "Your face is terribly distracting. Really, I don't know how anything gets done with you around looking like that."

The distance between the two men shrinks alarmingly with each second.

He clears his throat loudly.

Two sets of eyes snap to his. Frozen on the precipice of a kiss. Benjamin pinpoints the exact second where the lust clears from their eyes and the realisation of their discovery is a crushing blow.

Too late, they part like a wall of fire erupts between them. An after image of their embrace flashes across Benjamin's vision with each blink.

Barnum swallows audibly but he is a performer through and through; he has always infuriatingly bounced back from whatever the world has thrown at him. Benjamin watches his expression shutter off, a curtain hastily drawn across the stage but the audience have seen the damage. Carlyle's hands shake as he adjusts his waistcoat, gaze fixated upon the floor.

"Ah, Mr Hallett." His showman ease is an ill fitting mask. The forced casualness grates on Benjamin's nerves. "Apologies, we didn't think anyone was still up."

Carlyle's pulse ticks a staccato rhythm at the hollow of his throat. How far the boy, once the apple of his father's eye, has fallen. Benjamin moves in the circles where Carlyle's reputation was infamous for all the wrong reasons, from his fondness of drink to the endless parade of women warming his bed. Disowned after his dealings with the circus, it's not surprising that years in such distasteful company have utterly corrupted the tattered remnants of his morals.

This is exactly the kind of behaviour he would expect from Carlyle. He is attracted to the perverse, thinks it love, when it is in fact, a _sickness_.

To the boy, Benjamin whispers words like poisoned velvet. "I always knew there was something wrong with you."

Carlyle recoils as if Benjamin has struck him across the face. His eyes, always far too expressive for the world he was raised in, brim with hurt and shock. Benjamin wants to hear what he has to say for himself, this cuckoo in the nest, but Barnum recovers first, plastering on his showman smile.

"Well, fortunately in our line of work, we make stars out of those society views as _wrong_."

Fury deepens the lines on Benjamin's face.

"You think this _funny_? Do you have any idea the ruin you'd bring upon yourselves, not to mention your wife and children, if this information got out?"

Barnum doesn't even blink at the threats, his voice the perfect imitation of boredom. "I've brought ruin upon myself before, Mr Hallett, and survived. It would be nothing new."

" _Phin_ ," Carlyle hisses. Hairline fractures eat at Carlyle's fragile composure, one wrong move from shattering all together. Benjamin is glad at least one of them understands the gravity of the situation.

Barnum glances at Carlyle's pale, drawn face, sees the undisguised terror behind those blue eyes, and relents with a sigh.

"I won't beg for your silence, nor will I apologise for what you might've seen here tonight," Barnum says. "But I believe you care about your granddaughters more than anything else in this world. Do you want to risk their health and happiness by tearing this family apart?"

It's a bold, despicable gamble on Barnum's part, using his daughters as bargaining chips to buy Benjamin's silence. Anger heats his veins, its potency strong and eager to call Barnum's bluff.

But his words, unfortunately, hold a kernel of truth. Benjamin thinks of the two little girls asleep in their beds upstairs. Their blissful innocence turned to tears as they watch their father be dragged away by the police. He thinks of Charity, her eyes hollow with devastation, as she watches every inch of her home be combed over for evidence.

They won't find anything incriminating enough to stand up in court, on this Benjamin is almost certain. Barnum may be a careless man but Carlyle is far from it.

“No,” Benjamin grudgingly admits. “Their well being is of utmost importance to me."

Barnum nods gravely. "Then on this, at least, we are agreed."

It seems there is little else to say on the subject.

He’s barely crossed the threshold of the study before the door is shut behind him. For several beats, the house is utterly silent. He imagines, on the other side of the door, Barnum and Carlyle breathing properly for the first time since their discovery, looking at each other in horror and realising how close they just came to their own destruction.

As Carlyle’s hysterical, broken voice carries through the door and up the stairs, impervious to Barnum’s words of comfort, Benjamin thinks on how differently this night would’ve gone if Carlyle's father had been the one to happen across them instead. Their cosy little life of sin would be hanging in tatters.

He hopes this serves as a warning to them.

 

At first, Benjamin isn't sure what woke him. The light is wrong and the bed is not his own and for several heartbeats, he can't remember where he is.

The noise comes again, splitting the night, unmistakably a child's scream.

Benjamin thinks, _Charity_.

Then the years catch up with him.

His _granddaughters_.

Benjamin hauls himself up against the pillows, ready to investigate.

An orange glow passes by in the hallway, shadows dancing under the door. He hears hurried footsteps outside, listens to the cries grow louder as the door to the girl's room is opened.

For several agonising minutes, Barnum's soft reassurances are lost beneath Helen's distraught wails. Benjamin's heart sticks in his throat and refuses to budge until Helen quietens to pitiful sniffles and hiccups. He suppresses the urge to go to her, for he knows he will not be welcome. He never meant to care so much about two little girls that are half Barnum, but here he is.

The silence that follows is unbearably loud, Benjamin's ears straining for any sound of further distress.

The hallway is illuminated with colour once more as Barnum pads back to bed, accompanied by Helen's whimpers.

Benjamin wants to scoff at Barnum's babying. If Charity woke screaming in the night, it was the job of the nursemaid to silence and comfort her. Neither he or Hannah would ever dream of letting young Charity sleep in their bed. But then, Benjamin is yet to meet a man strong enough to deny Helen a single thing and there's no one more wrapped around her little finger than her father. Benjamin knows that he himself would gladly give Helen the world tied up in a pretty pink bow if that's what she wanted.

When he wakes again, it is to birdsong and the weak dawn light creeping around the curtains. His pocket watch reads five thirty. A little earlier than his usual rising, yet despite the broken night, Benjamin finds he is no longer tired.

Hoping the kitchen staff will already be on hand to prepare his morning coffee, Benjamin throws on a dressing gown and makes his way down the hall.

The master bedroom door is ajar. The lid of Pandora's box cracked open, begging for a peek.

He pauses on the threshold. Soft snores fill the air. Charity had forbidden her parents from entering this room for reasons she refused to elaborate.

Unable to help himself, curiosity propels his feet forwards and he peers in through the gap.

It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim, for the shadows to reveal their secrets.

His first thought is that the bed is unusually big, accommodating four figures with ease. Helen is sprawled out like a starfish between her parents, Barnum’s fingers absently combing through Helen’s golden locks. Caroline curls into the curve of her mother’s back, her dark hair just visible above the duvet.

The longer Benjamin stares, the stronger the nagging sense grows that something is wrong with this picture. He cannot place the reason for it, this lingering unease in the pit of his stomach.

The floorboards creak under his weight as he edges closer. The breath freezes in his lungs.

Helen stirs.

“Daddy?”

"‘M here, sweetheart.”

“The fire?”

All the air leaves the room. If it’s possible to feel someone’s stomach sink to their feet, Benjamin feels it for Barnum just then.

“We’re safe now.” Something akin to regret swallows Barnum’s words as he tries to comfort his daughter. “Just a bad dream.”

“I was scared, daddy.”

Her tiny trembling voice is a hammer to Benjamin’s heart.

“I know, darling. So was I.” Benjamin can hear how much this admission costs Barnum. A father should never admit weakness to his children. “But I had to save Flip, right?”

Helen makes a shaky little sound of approval and snuggles into her father’s chest. Barnum wraps his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Charity, ever the light sleeper, touches Barnum’s arm, her hand coming to rest over her husband’s.

The duvet shifts a little. Benjamin jolts, sure his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Once he sees it, he doesn’t know how he ever mistook the figure curled around Charity for that for a child.

 _Carlyle_ nuzzles against the top of Charity’s spine, the arm draped over her stomach tightening protectively. His hair is in disarray, his loose sleep shirt slipping down to reveal broad, tanned shoulders. Charity presses back into Carlyle like his presence is a comfort she cannot be without.

Sick to his stomach, Benjamin can’t stand it a moment longer. Is it not bad enough that Carlyle is carrying on with Barnum, but now Charity too?

What is supposed to be Carlyle’s room is at the end of the hallway. Benjamin lets the door swing open, almost resigned to the contents within. Sunrise streams through the window, illuminating the dust particles floating heavy in the air. The bed is as immaculate as the day it was last made, many many moons ago. The only recent sign of life is the letters and scraps of paper on the writing desk overlooking the grounds below. Carlyle is tidy in nature but the walls and surfaces are utterly devoid of the personal touches that make a place more than just a hollow shell.

Still Benjamin searches for some sign that he is wrong. That Carlyle does not share a room, share a bed with Charity _and_ her husband.

A small hand tugs at his sleeve. Caroline looks up at him, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“Grandpa? What’re you doing?”

“I thought this was the bathroom," Benjamin lies smoothly. He shuts the door on the lie hiding in plain sight. "Why don’t you go back to bed, my sweet, it’s still early.”

Caroline stubbornly shakes her head.

“No? Then how about you join me for coffee?”

She sticks out her tongue and screws up her face. “Coffee is _disgusting_.”

Benjamin laughs, pulling her into his side. “Tea for you, then, princess.”

Once they are downstairs and out of earshot, he asks with careful words, “does Helen often wake screaming in the night?”

She hesitates before answering.

“Not as much now.” Caroline bites her lip. “After the fire she did almost every night. So did daddy. It was horrible.”

He pats her head. “But not you, my brave little soldier.”

Caroline musters up a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Benjamin is struck by how much older she looks than her eleven years. She might not be as vocal in her trauma as her sister, but watching a burning building collapse with her father still inside has forced her to grow up too soon, forced her to confront concepts usually shielded from the young.

The entire family bears the scars, some visible, some not, of that fateful night.

Benjamin shakes his head. All this trouble for one coloured girl, for one alcoholic degenerate. He weighs up the cost of what was lost and what was gained and wonders if it was worth it in the end.

 

Benjamin enters the parlour one afternoon, longing to get his weight off his feet and his mind off the less than promising conversation with the contractors. The ceiling to floor windows open out onto a Juliet marble balcony and Benjamin has discovered the room, south facing, fills with the most wonderful warm light around this time every day.

Two figures occupy in the lounge chairs, a tray of tea and cake on the end table between them, the gently billowing drapes shielding the worst of the sunlight.

Carlyle and the girl Benjamin has seen plastered over giant billboards throughout the city, a girl who has appeared in Caroline's sketches countless times, a girl Helen speaks of with breathless wonder.

The coloured girl who believes she can hide her otherness behind a pink wig and a trapeze hoop. The one who flashed her big doe eyes and spirited Carlyle away.

Their heads bend together with the kind of familiarity that follows a wedding night, their laughter easy and often.

Benjamin looks at her, at her hand me down dress, the bird's nest curls atop her head. The cords of muscle where there should be womanly curves, her skin not as dark as her brother's but still abhorrent.

She must be good in bed. Benjamin can think of no other reason for Carlyle's enduring obsession with her.

He's going to have to order Charity to burn that chair now. A pity.

"Taking tea with the help, now, are we?"

Their heads snap around.

Carlyle bristles at the sight of him. It is only the years of deeply ingrained lessons that keep the polite, dead-behind-the-eyes smile on his face. "Mr Hallett, Anne is a dear friend of mine and I would appreciate it if you treated her with the respect she deserves."

"Ah, yes. Anne," Benjamin spits the name with all the contempt he can muster, enjoying the way she shrinks under his gaze. "The coloured girl you had...relations with. Do you have any idea the shame you brought to your poor parents, flaunting your indiscretions across the city?"

A muscle in Carlyle's jaw twitches. What a fun game. “Mr Hallett-”

Benjamin’s heard the stories of how Carlyle publicly defied his parents and finds he rather wants to see that for himself.

He addresses the girl instead.

"Did he tire of you in the end? They all do eventually, you know." He licks his lips, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Or do you and the rest of your circus freaks share my daughter's bed, too?"

Carlyle leaps to his feet, red in the face. His voice is low and dangerous and of no consequence; Benjamin feels the surge of victory in finally touching a nerve and getting a reaction. "That is enough. If Charity wasn't graciously allowing you stay here, I would tell you to pack your things and get out. Let me make it perfectly clear that I will not tolerate you disrespecting my friends in such a way."

Benjamin laughs, a humourless sound. He takes a step forward, gratified when Carlyle does not retreat from the proximity. The boy has a spine in him after all! "How dare you? Who do you think you're talking to, boy? Siding with-"

"Father." Charity steps into the room. Though her expression is perfectly stoic, a storm rages behind her eyes. "Whilst Philip is living under this roof he is permitted to speak to guests however he pleases. It is as much his home as it is mine. If you do not like the present company, that is your problem. There are plenty of other rooms you can use instead."

His daughter now stands shoulder to shoulder with Carlyle. Benjamin's gaze flits between the two of them and over to the girl still sat in her chair, her head held high like she has the right to. Charity stares him down, unyielding and cold, as if he were no more than a stranger on the street.

The tea set trembles in the maid's hands. It will surely be growing cold by now.

Sensing a losing battle, Benjamin grunts at the maid to find him somewhere more _civilised_ to sit. The room lets out a collective breath. As the maid hurries on ahead, Benjamin looks over his shoulder.

Carlyle's hand rests in the small of Charity's back and only the fine tremor of her legs, a nervous tell left over from adolescence, betrays her need of that support. Charity grasps the girl's hand in hers, apologising profusely.

"I'm used to it, Charity," Anne says, tiredly. "I've heard far worse before, believe me."

His daughter's voice is so tragically sad. "I wish that wasn't that case."

Benjamin snorts and as he turns away, he thinks _we named her unfortunately well_. He hopes one day his daughter will stop giving the best parts of herself away to those who least deserve it.

 

Their final day in the Barnum household falls on Phineas and Charity’s wedding anniversary.

The couple are up and out the house before anyone else is awake, their destination and whereabouts a mystery. With Hannah and Benjamin busy packing, Caroline and Helen are left in Phillip’s charge, an arrangement that seems to please all three of them. Helen worships the ground Phillip walks upon and Caroline treats him like the big brother she never had but always wanted.

The sky is an endless pale blue and the sun already carries the heat of summer behind it. Phillip and the girls spend the day exploring the grounds and Hannah joins them for a picnic in the shade of the big oak trees.

The Phillip who sits beside Hannah now, making daisy chains and nibbling crustless cucumber sandwiches, is miles away from the Phillip she remembers from high society events. That Phillip made no attempt to hide how deep in cups he was. He became a scandal for it, among other unsavoury vices, but perhaps no one cared enough to notice how Phillip was slowly drowning himself in the bottom of a bottle. Hannah remembers wondering how such strikingly beautiful eyes could possibly hold such misery, such sadness.

Her heart is glad to see only joy and contentment radiating from those baby blues as he watches Caroline teaching her sister a new ballet step. Phillip’s whole face lights up when he smiles and these devastating smiles come much easier and often.

They’re good for him, the Barnums.

The more Hannah talks with him, the more she understands how he has stolen the heart of each member of the Barnum family.

Phillip is unfailingly kind, a trait Hannah knows he didn’t get from either of his parents, a trait the world so often looks upon with scorn and mockery. And yet still his kindness shines through, evident in the way Phillip kisses Helen’s grazed knee better after she trips over and lets her ride around on his back for the rest of the day. It’s there in the way he always lends Hannah his arm when he sees her heading upstairs, knowing her hip isn’t what it used to be. The way he risked his life for a girl who most wouldn’t even look at as they passed in the street, the way he loves and cherishes Caroline and Helen like they are his own flesh and blood.

They talk at length about books, finding a former playwright unsurprisingly well read and keenly intelligent. Hannah asks about the library, how he stands the chaos. Phillip laughs and tells her of his father's library, a room filled from ceiling to floor with books. Uniform red spines, gold lettering. An impressive collection, untouchable, a museum without the glass cases. A place to be admired, but never used. His voice is sad and wistful as he explains how he grew up with a thirst for literature, but was always too afraid to pluck a book off those hallowed shelves. He said it would break his heart if Caroline and Helen suffered the same. Even though Charity and Phineas have always encouraged their daughters' desire to read and be read _to_ , Phillip unorganised the library and found he rather liked it that way. So it stuck.

By the time Phillip puts the girls to bed and retires to his own, Hannah recognises that she too may be just as smitten as the rest of the house.

 

She jolts awake at the sound of wheels on the gravel driveway, unaware she had drifted off in the first place. The book she had been reading lies open and crumpled on the floor, the candles long since burnt out. The leather armchair, though comfy, is not meant for old bones and Hannah’s body aches and her joints creek as she drags herself up onto her feet.

Hannah peers around the edge of the curtain. A carriage pulls up at the bottom of the steps. She hadn’t expected them to return tonight, assuming they’d take rooms at a hotel in the city and make a weekend of it.

Phineas topples out, a jumble of long limbs and laughter. He offers his hands to his wife, who navigates the steps down from the carriage with all the grace of a seasick pirate.

Hannah sighs and fetches a jug of water from the kitchen, listening all the while for the turn of the key in the lock.

It never comes.

Fearing they’ve somehow got lost on their way up the steps, Hannah cups her hands to the glass panel in the front door and peers out.

Hand in hand beneath the moonlight, Phineas and Charity dance. Gently twirling and swaying together, their usual elegance lost to the alcohol content in their veins. Charity stumbles into Phineas’ chest after a turn and he catches her, steadies her, an assurance that says he always will.

Hannah doesn’t need to see their faces to know they only have eyes for each other.

It’s picture perfect snapshot, the kind that aches to be painted and immortalised in a museum; Charity’s star touched curls, her gown of twilight blue swirling around her ankles like the crest of a wave. Phineas in his best suit, handsome as a fairytale prince come to life.

A soft humming reaches Hannah’s ears. Phineas tucks Charity against his chest like she was made to fit there, chin resting atop her crown as they move to their own beat. The melody stirs a memory to the surface, of a young Charity returning from the beach one afternoon, soft and smitten with the tailor's boy. The house was filled with a song about impossible dreams for days afterwards. Caroline and Helen harmonised the same tune just hours ago, a musical comfort blanket in the absence of their parents.

Throughout her stay, Hannah has been staggered by just how much this family treasure one another, wholly and unreservedly. At its heart, two people who fell in love before they even really knew what love was. And on this day, fifteen years ago, in front of witnesses they’d pulled off the streets, they vowed to stay together for the rest of their lives.

So exceptionally rare what they have, yet they defied the odds and were lucky enough to find it _again_ with Phillip.

Tired of dancing, Charity kicks off her shoes and slumps down on the steps. Phineas slips his jacket over her shoulders and an arm around her waist.

Hannah drapes a shawl around herself and steps out into the night. The sound of the door turns their heads, peering up through bleary eyes at her.

“Sorry for intruding but I thought some water might be appreciated about now."

Her offer is met with hearty approval. Situating herself beside Phineas, she pours out two glasses for them, quickly followed by another two after the first are gulped down.

“Did we wake you?” Phineas asks, quietly, apologetically.

Hannah shakes her head.

“My Charity had one too many glasses of wine at dinner," Phineas explains ruefully, stroking her back. "I was hoping the night air might sober her up a little.”

Hannah says nothing about the smell of alcohol on Phineas’ breath.

“Where did you go?”

“Oh, you know.” An odd little smile plays at Phineas’ lips. He absently waves his fingers through the air. “Here and there.”

When she receives no further response, Hannah laughs. She can't begin to guess where “here and there” is; she doesn't know their tastes well enough. But with her son-in-law being who he is, Hannah suspects there was some huge, sweeping gesture involved. Perhaps an elephant or two.

“Alright, keep your secrets. Just promise you’ll let me see my new grandbaby before they’re all grown up this time.”

Phineas gulps.

The alcohol brings Charity’s reaction a little late. She splutters a startled laugh. “Mother, I’m not…”

Hannah hums, turning her face up to the sky. Call it a woman's intuition. “Aren’t you?”

Charity turns wide eyes upon her husband and, in that special way of theirs, have a whole conversation without saying a word. A chorus of cricket song is the only answer Hannah receives.

“I wanted to thank you, Phineas.”

“Thank _me_?”

“You have a knack for bringing happiness into people’s lives where it was severely lacking before. I saw it with Charity and now with Phillip too. You may not be exactly who I would’ve chosen for my daughter to marry, but I know you love her far better than any titled gentleman ever could. My greatest wish for you, Charity, was that you would not have my life."

Hannah pauses as the weight of her words sinks in. The discontent she feels with her life is not something she's ever admitted to before, to anyone.

"I knew as soon as you two met that he would be the answer. So thank you, Phineas, for giving my daughter the freedom to live the life she deserves; one full of love and laughter.”

Phineas wraps his hands around Hannah’s and brings each up to his mouth. She does not think the wetness in his eyes is a trick of the starlight.

“Did I silence the greatest showman?” Hannah teases gently, nudging her shoulder against his.

Charity makes an amused little sound. “Oh, that’ll be the day.”

It's a night of confessions or perhaps it's the alcohol loosening Phineas' tongue. He stares off into the darkness and explains, words trembling beneath the weight of their emotion; “I never believed I was worthy of-- I didn’t think I deserved your daughter.”

“Oh, _Phin_ ,” Charity breathes, the heartache in her voice palpable. She rests her forehead against his cheek, her fingers gently stroking through the curls at his nape.

Hannah senses it's not the first time Phineas has admitted this feeling of inadequacy to Charity. Nor is it a feeling confined to the past.

“I’m sorry we ever made you feel that way,” she says with genuine regret. “From the day you first met Charity, you dedicated yourself to making a better world for her and _you kept your word._ If anything, she doesn’t deserve you.”

Charity tuts. “ _Mother_!”

Phineas chuckles.

“Oh, well, we could sit here all night arguing about who deserves who when it doesn’t really matter in the end. You have each other and you share the kind of love some people only ever dream about. That’s the important thing.”

If either of them notice the wistfulness to her voice, they don't comment on it.

The trio stare up at the stars for a long moment as if they will find the secrets of their fate in the heavens above.

“Happy anniversary. And here’s to many, many more to come.”

Hannah kisses them both goodnight and makes her way inside. As the door closes behind her, she sees them curl into each other, two souls occupying the space of one, bathed in the silvery light.

 

~

 

“Next time they come knocking asking if there’s room at the inn, I will personally escort them to the closest hotel and pay for their entire stay,” Phineas announces decisively. He lets the curtain fall back into place and the Hallett's retreating carriage disappears from view.

No one, except perhaps Caroline and Helen, are sad to see them go.

Her parents house is not yet restored to its former glory, not yet livable, but their stay under _this_ roof made things unlivable for Phineas in the end. It felt like the longest month of Charity's life and now she finally lifts her head from under the water and _breathes_ for the first time.

“Agreed,” Charity sighs, flopping down in the armchair. “I never should’ve said yes in the first place.”

She grabs Phillip's arm and pulls him into her lap. The chair is too small for them both to fit comfortably, but Charity doesn't mind having Phillip half draped across her, his legs dangling over the sides.

For a man of his stature, Phineas has the remarkable ability to make himself as small as possible. He manages to squeeze in under Phillip's legs, pressing up against Charity with very little room left to breathe. Charity raises her eyebrows at him, to which he only beams like a proud schoolboy and presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek.

Phillip kisses the back of her hand. “Hey, you weren’t to know it would end up being so long.”

Still she feels a pang of guilt in her chest for having to keep Phillip at a distance. Phillip took it with good grace and never once complained, but with the three of them now, crammed into one too small armchair, as close as possible without melding into a single entity, Charity thinks the situation might’ve weighed on them more than they first realised.

“Just one night was one night too many. This house was meant to be the place where we never have to hide."

The rub of Phineas’ fingertips against her scalp goes a long way to ease the lingering ache of regret.

"They would've found out eventually anyway, Chairy."

The truth will always out, an inevitability she admits to as she frees herself from its shackles. It does not make the knowledge any easier that her parents now hold in their hands the secrets that could ruin them all and place her lovers in jail.

“It could’ve been worse,” Phillip reasons. “It could’ve been _my_ parents coming to stay.”

A collective shudder goes through the trio.

“I’m sure they’d rather drown in their own sewage than ask _us_ for help.”

“Plus they’d take one step across the property line and burst into flames,” Phineas mutters darkly.

Phillip rolls his eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, they’re not demons, Phin.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Charity fists the front of Phillip’s shirt and brings him in for a slow, thorough kiss. The angle is awkward with the way they’re sitting but Charity appreciates the closeness, reconnecting after weeks of stolen moments and fleeting touches.

“I missed you,” Charity says, only realising in that moment how much she means it.

Their noses rub and brush together. Eskimo kisses, as Helen calls them, are Charity’s favourite kind of kisses.

Phineas’ golden eyes brim with affection as he watches them, his smile lopsided and besotted. It’s a miracle, Charity thinks, that they managed to keep it a secret for as long as they did.

Her husband is the picture of perfect happiness. But Charity and Phillip know him better than anyone on the planet. In front of the crowds, in the middle of the ring, Phineas is the most effortlessly confident, charming man you’ll ever see. Only his lovers know that confidence masks a lifetime of insecurities and self doubt. Those doubts have a habit of rearing their ugly head at moments such as this because Phineas has an unfortunate history of failing to see what’s right in front of him; two partners who absolutely adore him and look at him like he hung every star in the sky, who love each other just as much as they love him. It doesn’t matter how many times they could tell him this, every now and then, Charity will spot that hesitancy in Phineas’ eyes, will see that question forming in the back of his mind.

_Are they better off without me?_

The answer, they are quick to assure him, is a resolute and resounding _no_.

“Take that look off your face, Phin, I missed you too.”

Phillip reaches for him and Phineas' laugh is lost between their lips. They kiss softly, soundly, a sight Charity could never tire of. Phineas surrenders with a sigh and Phillip presses deeper, cradling Phineas' face, pouring everything he has into the embrace.

When they break apart, Charity hopes any lingering doubts have been silenced and banished to that dark, fearful place at the back of Phineas' mind, the place that neither she or Phillip will ever allow him fall head first into.

She clears her throat.

"As much as I'm enjoying the view, might we relocate to somewhere with more room before I lose all feeling in my limbs?"

Apologetic and sheepish, Phillip and Phineas are quick to peel themselves away from each other and up off the armchair.

Both offer out a hand to Charity and she feels like Cinderella at the ball, two handsome princes waiting on her. She is Guinevere with her Arthur and Lancelot and this, at last, is their happy ending.

How she loves them, her boys.

Arms and hearts inexplicably linked, the three of them walk through their home, every trace of the Hallett's visit gone from sight.

The consequences of secrets unearthed can wait for another day.

They revel in their freedom regained; laughing until the laughter steals the air from their lungs, embracing madly, openly, passionately, just because they _can_.

The rest of the world has no business here and the house becomes their private sanctuary once more.

**Author's Note:**

> What was supposed to be a few scenes of Charity's parents finding out about the Charity/Phin/Phillip relationship somehow turned into the most I've ever written for this fandom. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.


End file.
